


Balance

by Ringshadow



Series: Dynamic Factors [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dom Clint Barton, I thumbtapped this one too, M/M, Sub Phil Coulson, you people better appreciate my descent into joint damage over this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ringshadow/pseuds/Ringshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint takes Phil out to a bondage club. Phil continues to struggle with his new dynamic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance

Phil's mom had taught him to sew.

 

She was the dom, and she had held that all doms should be good at sewing and cooking. Not tailor level but enough to do repairs. Phil had had good dexterity and taken to the skill, and had enjoyed seeing people wear what he made. His little sister was a sub and he'd made her a wide array of white ribbon chokers, decorated in antique lace and beads and pearls.

 

As he'd gotten older she'd helped him learn some leatherworking, and he still had old faded scars on his hands from fucking up sometimes but that was okay. He still enjoyed it and it was easy to tuck a little sewing bag in his travel kit to busy himself.

 

He never had a sub of his own but he fostered and he'd made them all things to wear. They had all appreciated it in different ways. White ribbon chokers and white leather collars because fostered subs tended to be distressed and wanted the reassurance and safety the symbol afforded them (white ribbons actually had legal backing in most states). Colorful ones when they got better.

 

The sub he'd had the longest, who he'd almost kept, had been Brock Rumlow. A train wreck of a sub, used and abused and broken of any trust. He'd come into specialist training from being a mercenary and had been a burning pyre of hostility. Fostering with Phil had been his last shot before he'd been bounced out of SHIELD and he'd treated Phil initially like he'd been saved by a demon, hostile and thankful and terrified.

 

It didn't take long for Phil to realize the only thing he could do was not touch and be calm. Putting Rumlow down was a minefield and the first time he'd done it, Rumlow had subdropped so bad he'd gone self-destructive. Kneeling over Rumlow's chest, pinning his arms with his knees, Phil had managed to tell him he was going into therapy and wasn't returning to duty without being cleared by psych.

 

That was when it came out just how Rumlow had ended up with SHIELD. He'd basically been acquired, SHIELD had gone after his employer and found a handful of soldiers, all subs and being held under. Fighting while subspaced. Rumlow had been found with headphones on, the music holding him down.

 

Music didn't play in Phil's apartment for weeks. It was less fostering and more a post disaster reconstruction project and it had taken a lot of time and patience.

 

The first time Brock had gone down and stayed down, sprawled on a cushion on the floor, had felt like a revelation, pride swelling through Phil's chest so hard it hurt.

 

It crashed again after that for a while because the next boot drop was that Brock had been beaten into enjoying pain. But that was easier to work with, fine some subs were painsluts, it was just a matter of properly framing contexts and the scenes.

 

He'd made Brock a black leather harness that could have shoulder holsters buckled to it, Miami style. It was hours upon hours of work with soft supple black leather. He'd lined it with fabric that could breathe, used metal components that were brushed dull for field work. It had fitted snug, enough to put pressure on as he breathed, just a little.

 

My hands and arms holding you safe, Phil had told him. Not ownership, but assurance.

 

Brock had been cleared for field work again shortly after and had started performing well. Still a hothead and a painslut but ranking up and getting recognition.

 

The night he had left Phil's place had been melancholy, at best. Brock had told him that if Phil said stay, he'd stay. Phil had told him he refused to hold Brock back like that.

 

Now, sitting in his apartment with the cover off his sewing machine, Phil tried to stop lingering on the past subs in his life. Better to have loved and lost maybe, given he can't really give anything to a sub, now. Not what a sub needs anyway.

 

He went through his material boxes, rolls of ribbon slipping through his fingers, considering.

 

White ribbons, the equal and opposite of a collar. A clear 'leave me out of it' notice when on the neck of a sub. It was a universally recognized symbol and any real dom would respect it. A sub could say a lot with their collars.

 

Doms, meanwhile, had manacle bracelets. Often cloth or soft leather these days, matching their collared sub. Some modern doms even put nameplates on their manacles.

 

Phil spent a long time staring at what materials he had before putting music on and getting to work. He chose a wide antique white ribbon, inch and a half with a tone on tone subtle pattern. He had soft pale blue velvet and used that as a backing, giving the ribbon blue borders and softness on his skin. He spent a few peaceful hours, sewing himself white ribbon manacle cuffs with hook in eyes to secure them, even made himself a matching fabric slave ring for his non dominant hand, attached to the cuff by a delicate gold chain.

 

And while he worked he remembered his parents, and the balance they had, and considered his own identity. How to weather this intrinsic change of who he was.

 

He still couldn't think of himself as submissive, not really. Years of domination, long time habit and ritual, stood in the way of this sudden change. But this felt like a first step, a middle ground. A submissive symbol expressed in a dominant way.

 

The gentle snugness when he was finished and put them on was reassuring, and he looked at himself in the mirror. Yeah, it was a mixed message, but so was he. Baby steps, and at the very least a warning flag to anyone in the Ivory Shackle club. Also quite appropriate given the name of the establishment.

 

He was still feeling reflective when Clint came to pick him up. He'd chosen off black slacks and a dark red button-down, wearing it with the top few buttons open and the sleeves cuffed. It was a good color on him, and it called attention to the cuffs.

 

Clint lifted his eyebrows almost the instant Phil opened the door. "Huh. I like them sir."

 

He'd beamed in spite of himself, taking the one off his dominant hand and offering it over as Clint came in. "Thanks, I made them earlier today."

 

Clint took it, running his fingers over the neat straight stitch work and the reinforced hook and eyes. "You've always made nice stuff. You may have missed your calling."

 

He scoffed, reaching to take it back and letting Clint put it on him instead, skin goose bumping when Clint's finger traced his inner wrist above the cuff. "A ten year old could make these."

 

"A ten year old couldn't do your leatherwork."

 

He made himself not think of Rumlow, not wonder if Brock would have gotten tangled in Hydra if he'd asked Brock to stay. Brock was still alive; he was in a facility for subs last Phil had heard, slowly healing. He'd been found in the harness.

 

Lost chances.

 

You can't fix everyone.

 

"Hey. In the moment with me okay?" Clint's hand stroked his face, cradled his cheek, and he sighed, nosing into it.

 

"Sorry. It's just been that kind of day." He admitted. "Come on. Let's go, I need to get out of my head for a while."

 

"I kind of agree." Clint dropped his hand and stepped out of the apartment as Phil did, waiting for him to lock up. "I spoke to Fury."

 

"So did I."

 

"You first." They walked side by side, falling into pacing each other like they always had.

 

"Talked to him on the phone then he came here yesterday. It was strange. He's been a friend for years, but his presence feels different now." He frowned a bit. "He’s ... he never apologized exactly, for what he had done to me."

 

"I can't argue it. You're still here."

 

"He did say this is an entirely unexpected side effect. That he never intended to change me like this. I may have yelled at him that making me forget shit is changing me too." Phil shook his head. "I threw a punch."

 

"Shit, sir."

 

"Oh yeah we fought and it was old times for about five minutes. Then he got me down and I damn near went under, I fought it and him and he cuffed me upside the head and said, and I do quote, "You aren't that different you old asshole." "

 

Clint snarked at Phil's Fury impression. "So. You back on leave?"

 

"Two weeks then I go back in for medical to see if I've stabilized. I'm not thrilled given the state of everything."

 

"Might be the best time. SHIELD is in a holding pattern."

 

What's left anyway. What's passed muster by multiple government agencies. Fifteen percent of the Agency, ducking in old office complexes, trying to take stock of their own decimation.

 

"Your turn." Phil glanced at him as they got off the elevator.

 

"Not as exciting as your meeting. We talked about your situation and he assigned me to you. You are now my top priority."

 

"Pft, you must be thrilled."

 

"I kind of am actually. Am I driving?"

 

"Sure."

 

Clint led the way to his car. "Am I allowed to ask what your headspace has been like?"

 

"Sort of lost." Phil admitted. "It’s like... there's two of me at the same time, the old version and all of the habits that remain, and the new version, uncertain and untested."

 

He unlocked his car, pausing to look at Phil as he opened the door for him. "You should write this stuff down."

 

He stared for a moment before getting into the car. "Why?"

 

"Because you're going through something few people have, and because you're more eloquent than you think." He said the latter half teasingly, walking around to get in.

 

"Being more eloquent than I think is still not all that eloquent." He snorted, looking in the back seat. "Fucking hell Barton it looks like your quiver threw up all over your car."

 

"Oh, blow me, sir."

 

* * *

 

The Ivory Shackle was an old club, standing since 1914. It had gone through all the phases of history and most recently had given up and floated back to a forties aesthetic, which was why Phil liked it. The decor was classic, warm and comfortable, the music was good, and it held a balance by maintaining itself PG13. It was a bondage club, but nudity was not allowed.

 

There was a stage winding through most of the club, usually in passive display mode, sometimes dynamic. Tonight a pair of women, one slender and long legged the other a little chubby, were relaxed into shibari suspensions. One had her head resting on the other's thigh.

 

Phil just had to smile about it, at their lazy content expressions. Their doms were sitting on the edge of the stage, chatting gamely. "Thanks for bringing me, Clint."

 

"I won't lie; the place has never been my thing. Nice club, not my music." But you're here, Clint doesn't say, stepping to the bar, Phil moving with him. "If I go out, I like Shatters."

 

"Also a nice place." Phil conceded, lacing his hands on the bar. "Since you're driving I'm getting a drink."

 

"Just don't drag me on the dance floor."

 

Phil's smile was pure evil. "No promises."

 

The bartender drifted up, pausing and lifting one elegant brow at Phil's manacles. "Not partaking tonight hm?"

 

"Well I am hoping to partake in a beer." Phil replied, managing a smile, and a brief negotiation later had secured himself a microbrew he was fond of. He turned to lean back on the bar, holding the bottle in his off hand, the edge of the little chain rattling on the glass.

 

"You know in spite of how horrible everything was for a while... I am enjoying this lull." Clint admitted, accepting lemonade from the bartender and a designated driver stamp for the back of his hand.

 

"I'm not sure it's actually a lull. It's more the last of us have taken cover." Phil replied. "I'm not sure I want to talk about work."

 

"I don't blame you." Clint's look was sympathetic.

 

"I don't want your pity."

 

Now he scoffed. "Good, you aren't getting any."

 

"Asshole." It's fond though and he chased it with a swig of beer.

 

It was a busy night in the bar, not packed but populated. Phil liked the Shackle because it was mostly established couples or mature singles. He'd been far past wanting to deal with young flighty subs with daddy fetishes. Sure they could be fun for a night but they were a lot of work.

 

He was watching a third girl get on the stage, gleefully hugging the girls in suspension before letting the rope master start working on her own harness, when a shiver of uncertainty went through him. This was something he'd enjoyed watching previously. He knew a few ties but shibari was art and he liked watching a talented rope master work.

 

It wasn't porn exactly, yeah it got his motor going sometimes but it was more like admiring a painting. Pleasing and without his need for interaction. He'd been invited to help set up some dynamic suspensions, before, but that was just because he's strong and has steady hands.

 

And now his nerves were suddenly on edge, uncertainly coil through his veins because he was reacting differently.

 

"Phil. Phil you just went really pale." Clint's voice got his attention, as did a hand shaking his shoulder. "Come on, let's go sit down."

 

He nodded tersely and let Clint pull him away from the bar, following to a booth and sitting heavily, killing half of the beer he had left in one long swallow.

 

"What's wrong? Do you want to go?"

 

Phil shook his head. "No, this is why I wanted to come out. I'm sort of testing myself." He admitted. "It's really strange. How my instincts have started to change." When Clint just barely tilted his head, he pointed at the stage. "What is your gut reaction to that?"

 

He blinked and watched the stage for a moment, smiling when the girl being put in a harness tipped her head back lazily, looking blissfully happy. "I like it if that's what you mean. I know some of that stuff. Nothing fancy but I know a few solid suspensions. It's... inspiring I guess."

 

"Do you want to interact with it?"

 

"No? They aren't my subs." Clint blinked at him.

 

"I used to feel the same way. Now I want it. I want to be in the ropes." He rubbed his eyes. "And that is so disconcerting."

 

Clint's brain went every which way, knowing this must be borderline torture for Phil but holy shit Phil in suspension seemed lethally hot. "You went pale because you noticed how you felt about it."

 

"Yeah. I guess." He finished his beer. "I need to read more on dom and sub factor. Weird shit. Brain switches modes and what I want changes."

 

"Brain chemistry." Clint shrugged. "Could be worse, you could be producing a mad amount of estrogen."

 

"His name was Robert Paulson." Phil deadpanned, then grinned when Clint about snorted lemonade out his nose. "And I suppose that would be worse."

 

"I don't know, you might look good with D cups."

 

"Stop putting unrealistic expectations on my body."

 

Now Clint was laughing. "I need to take you out more often."

 

"Yes. You do." He smiled, then looked out over the bar with a sigh. "I'm too old for this shit. I have no idea what I would do if you weren't willing to help me."

 

"It isn't exactly a burden." Clint replied dryly. "Besides, I assure you, I am not the only dom that would be happy to scene with you."

 

"Hill would do it just for posterity but fuck her for going private sector."

 

"Amen." Clint toasted with his lemonade. "Fury would help you out."

 

Phil blanched, then again. "No. Let's not consider it. Besides, I'm not sure friends helping me out counts."

 

He considered Phil. "Okay, stay put." He slid out of the booth and took a long considering look around before just heading to the stage and starting a conversation with the rope master.

 

Phil out his head in his hands for a moment before placing his hands on the table again, watching them talk and quirking a brow when the rope master looked his way. Soon enough Clint walked back, the rope master walking with him, and Phil looked between them.

 

Already a little rankled at the idea of someone he didn't know being dommy in his direction.

 

"Your friend had an interesting question for me and I figured I should tell you the answer myself." The rope master said, one eyebrow up. Middle aged, works out, short red hair and freckles. Not bad, Phil decided, nice hands.

 

"What was the question?" Phil replied, turning in the booth to face him, one leg hanging out of the booth in the process.

 

"Whether I would consider working with an older, inexperienced sub." He looked Phil up and down. "You a switch?"

 

"I'm complicated." Phil replied beatifically.

 

The guy smiled a touch then darted his hand out, touching Phil under the jaw and tipping his head back a bit in the process. Phil gasped in a breath, going still and staring up at him as his brain ran combat scenarios. Easy to lean back, grab the man's wrist and break it or the hand.

 

But this isn't a combat situation so he stayed still, eyes locked on the redhaired dom. He's aware of Clint, suddenly in a more defensive stance, obviously not okay with Phil being touched.

 

"Yeah. Think I would." The rope master decided, dropping his hand. "I can see a lot of strength in you. Seeing that strength bow down would be lovely."

 

He cleared his throat. "Thanks. I think."

 

"Not a problem." The man nodded easily then turned away, heading back to the stage.

 

"Well that was unnerving." Phil shook off, fighting the urge to rub where he'd been touched.

 

"Didn't know he'd touch. Sorry." Clint stepped in, stroking a hand through Phil's hair.

 

Phil was startled, but melted into Clint after a heartbeat, leaning his forehead into Clint's stomach and enjoying his hair being stroked. "I'm not upset exactly. It's just... a trust thing."

 

"Yeah. I get you. We don't have a lot of it in our lives." He kept stroking, smiling when Phil wrapped an arm around him. "Feel a bit better about yourself at least?"

 

He made a noncommittal noise then looked up at him. "Come dance with me."

 

"Oh fine. If I must." He pulled Phil up, lacing two of their hands as they walked to the dance floor.

 

Phil has always maintained that dancing and combat are close cousins and he counts himself as somewhat proficient at both. Clint has been his long time sparring partner, they know how each other move, how they fit together. They fell into moving together, adapting between songs and genres, fucking up sometimes but laughing about it.

 

At some point, Clint was spinning him and he stumbled a bit, and Clint steadied him with a smile. That was all it really took, Phil's eyelids fluttering as he slipped under, the world going soft edged and safe and all in orbit around Clint.

 

He kept dancing, letting Clint lead as the music switched to a tango. He got tugged in close and willingly leaned to Clint's chest, smiling.

 

"Hey. Are you down?" Clint asked in his ear.

 

"Yes."

 

"Fucking hell you go down so easy."

 

He hummed.

 

Eventually Clint pulled him off the dance floor and put a bottle of water in his hands and he drank it, and was still in a blissful soft place when another voice cut in.

 

"A sub in manacles?"

 

He wasn't sure why but the voice was like a slap of ice water and he jolted, physically staggering as he slammed out of subspace right into an angry defensive pose, rankling even as Clint stepped in front of him protectively.

 

Sub drop, he realized with a blink. He'd just been shoved into sub drop and he isn't sure if he wanted to cry or kill someone. He'd gone from centered to groundless in an instant.

 

"What business is it of yours?" Clint demanded, keeping Phil behind him.

 

"Oh, well, shame on me for asking the obvious question." The dom, a blonde woman, eyed him. "That is an interesting fashion statement you're letting your sub make."

 

"He's not my sub, he's my friend."

 

"Oh honey. You are far too old to dance around it like that."

 

"Do you have a problem with me?" Phil demanded, stepping up even with Clint, shoulders squaring up and years of habit changing his stance. "Because I am far too old to suffer fools like you."

 

She blinked, looking stunned at his reaction.

 

"I will show my submission on my terms not yours. It is none of your business whether I find the collar reassuring or manacles." He stepped forward, glaring. "And you should know better than to break subspace like that."

 

"I uh, I'm sorry."

 

"You should be. Piss off."

 

She stepped back slowly then left them standing by the bar, Phil still trembling with his hands curled into fists. Clint gathered him into a hug slowly, tucking his face to his shoulder and rubbing the back of his neck until the tension started flowing from his body.

**Author's Note:**

> Two fics ending with Phil and Clint hugging, what you wanna fight about it?
> 
> And yes, we're apparently post Winter Soldier and now in an AU timeline. I'm as along for the ride as you guys are. Let me know if you want to see more of Brock Rumlow.


End file.
